Lockie I'm Not With You
by Kaizen Kitty
Summary: 2016 comes to Hollyoaks: with his marriage to Ste finally over, can John Paul move on? And who with? Lockie has his own trouble; forsaken by Porshe (his wife), betrayed by his brother Cameron, he fights for his life. [Lockie x John Paul]
1. Happy 2016, Mate

Lockie x John Paul, Hollyoaks season 2016

2016 comes to Hollyoaks: with his marriage to Ste finally over, can John Paul move on? And who with? Lockie has his own trouble; forsaken by Porshe (his wife), betrayed by his brother Cameron, he fights for his life.

 **Happy 2016, Mate**

The floor was ice cold, the mattress soggy with fresh urine and Lockie's pubic hair stuck to his legs under his boxers - it hurt to move. Tears had dried and formed a crust film on the rims of his eyes. His throat hurt. He attempted talking to the wall, only to get his voice back. Nothing but a low pitched wheeze came out. Pathetic. He was pathetic. This situation was stupid, pathetic.

He should have gone to the police when he had the chance. Shouldve gone straight to the station.

Lockie cringed. And yet he hadn't. He had looked out for Cameron, his older brother, yet again. He'd stuck his neck out for him, ignored his faults, he forgave him. And now he was here. Locked up in a tool shack of some sort. Cold, hungry, alone. Funny in a way: locked up Lockie. Lock the door and toss the key. He shivered; lucky the weather was mild this year. Last winter the temperature in Hollyoaks had dropped far below zero. Lockie remembered walking down the streets linked by the arm with Porshe (who had dragged him from one shop to the next - in search of Christmas presents for the copious McQueen family). It had been so cold that year, he had hugged Porsche for her body warmth. He smiled. The mattress squeaked as he rolled over with a groan. He had screwed that up royally as well.

Even if he did escape from this new mess he'd gotten himself into, and suppose he could get Cameron off his back and get him to stop this insane vendetta, even then, - Porsche would want nothing to do with him. It was over.

Lockie lifted his chained hands over his head and fumbled for the little metallic bowl with leftovers. Carefully he picked out a strand of noodles and put it in his mouth. He chewed the damp dough. His mouth full of sticky saliva and pasta pieces. He swallowed. Slowly. Slowly he lowered his arms again, rolled over on his side, closed his eyes and told himself to sleep.

Fireworks went off in the distance. He knew he was far, far away from any inhabited place. And no one would come to rescue him. Tears streaked down Lockie's cheeks onto the pillowless mattress and the stained, reeking coverlets.

"Happy 2016, Lockie," he whispered to the wall.

* * *

John Paul met the New Year in a gay bar - celebrating the fact that once again, a new year had started, and he was single. Not the Flying Rainbow - that place was full of wannabe bears with thin irregular growing chest hair, and sixteen-year-old twinks (with fake IDs claiming they were at least 20) who dreamed of going down to Hollywood and becoming the next Chris Colfer. And besides, John Paul had had it with Hollyoaks. Ever since he returned to the village four years ago, it had given him nothing but grief. So he had hailed a Daz cab (Darren wasn't driving that night) to take him on a one-way ride as far away from Hollyoaks as the driver possibly could. That's how he ended up in Blackburn, of all places. Once there, he went on a long stroll from street to street, and, following the rainbow colored flags, walked into something called _Los Tres Amigos_. John Paul claimed a high stool at the bar, ordering one of the locally brewed beers - and was 5 pounds poorer for it.

The ice cold beer gobbled down his throat. John Paul licked his lips and had a look of the place. It was crowded with bodies standing and talking over the hip disco music that echoed all over. The acoustics of this place was terrible. A few guys were dancing. Swaying their hips sensually to the subdued beat of a drum in the background.

One guy especially caught John Paul's eye. He was dancing in the center of the room, hands at his sides, eyes closed, feeling the music. And as he moved, fluidly gliding over the floor, he was in tune with the music, never missing a note or even a single beat. Dancing was an experience for him; not merely an ostentatious mimicking of bedroom techniques. The guy wore a button down shirt with frilled collar, skin tight pants, and - to John Paul's surprise - cowboy boots. John Paul burst out laughing. It was so crowded and loud (sound filled every nook and cranny in the wall to the brim with need and want) that nobody cared to notice.

A flare from outside lit up the bar through the windows. For a moment it was bright as daylight. John Paul saw the guy was blond, his button down shirt was a bright canary yellow, his pants were of a ruddy brown color, and the cowboy boots - pink.

A smirk manifested on John Paul's features. He set his half empty beer glass on the counter, threw his jacket over one shoulder, and weaved his way between the dancers and the obnoxiously talking drunkards.

By the time John Paul had reached the guy, a slow song had come on, and most people were clearing the dance floor - going back to their seats with shy smiles and shaking faces. It appeared they were the only ones still left standing. John Paul studied the guy's face (his eyes were still closed, his head was cocked to one side, and he was listening intently, feeling the music). John Paul felt bashful about disturbing the guy's peace. Fireworks went off outside. The bar lit up. The man's pale face was covered in blue hues, his hooked nose quivering, his soft well shaped lips just slightly parted.

John Paul felt a hammering in his chest, and was about to turn and head back to his seat at the bar (if it was unoccupied still), when the guy opened his eyes. It was dark again. And in the dark, they watched each other, eyes locked - two predatory gazes waiting for the pounce. The guy stepped forward, reached out and traced his hand lightly down John Paul's arm.

"Hello stranger," the guy said with a lift of one eyebrow, and an upwards tug of his lip.

John Paul grinned. "I didn't know this bar served fifth formers," he said, giving the guy a wink with his right eye.

"Thanks for the compliment," the guy said. "Though in truth I'm 26 years old and can hold my liquor well."

The implication was he could hold his liquor better than John Paul could. Sweat dribbled down John Paul's forehead when he realized he was practically leering at the guy. The guy must have noticed him awhile ago. He felt like sinking through the floor in shame. His palms were damp with sweat, his pulse was quickening, and his face was growing hot. John Paul looked around the bar for the nearest exit. This was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. Coming here had been a mistake.

His feet started to walk away when the guy grabbed his arm. With wide eyes, John Paul stared at him. He was led into a slow dance. Scurrying to keep up, John Paul found his feet flying over the vinyl floor, one hand pressed against the man's chest, his other arm laced just above the guy's left buttock. Their dance was sensual, and required quick footwork despite the slow song. It was not a dance - John Paul realized, - this was an experience. He suddenly felt compelled to offer something in return.

"I'm 27," John Paul said hastily, his voice uneven, showing how out of breath he was.

The guy smiled at John Paul. The frills of his shirt fluttered from the movement. He leaned back, pulled John Paul closer, and whispered in his ear

"Pleased to meet you, 27."


	2. Let The Rain Wash Away

**Let The Rain Wash Away**

John Paul woke up in a strange bedroom. One look at the ceiling was enough to know he hadn't been here previously. He blinked. A warm body was lying face-down beside him. Little blond arm hairs looked golden in the warm morning glow. John Paul yawned, stretched himself and cautiously crept out of bed. He was buck naked.

He tiptoed over to the chair by the window (the curtains were pulled down discreetly - thank Heavens), and put his socks on first. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror. Odd. Positively odd. John Paul was not used to one-night stands. This simply wasn't his style. Scratching the back of his neck, he looked at the serenely sleeping heap of blond hair still on the pillow. He didn't even know the guy's name.

With hurried motions, John Paul pulled his plain black boxers back up his legs, his hands shaking, heart hammering. He checked his wallet - empty. Slapping himself on the forehead, he kneaded the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Never ever ever was he having a Nutty Black ever again. He cast a quick glance over the room. A couple of tenners lay by the bedside. The guy was fast asleep. John Paul looked quickly from the bed table to the bed and back. It was wrong to steal, but considering John Paul had bought drinks for the both of them last night (he had a clear memory of that), and now he had nothing to pay for his ride home, John Paul thought it was only fair that his lay for the night would oblige him a few pounds.

John Paul walked over, bent down, and (still not wearing any pants, his unbuttoned beige shirt haphazardly threwn over his shoulders) leafed through the cash, picking out the exact amount he'd need for a bus ride home. He dressed and left the apartment, making sure the lock clicked behind him. It was not a hotel - to John Paul's surprise. The guy really lived here. John Paul smiled as he waited at the cold, deserted bus stop. Raindrops softly fell on his shoulders. Somehow he had gained the guy's trust without even knowing his name. He frowned, still smiling. The fireworks had finally stopped, and all that was left now was a soggy mess of charred cardboard under his feet. As John Paul waved the bus over - the first morning bus out of Blackburn - he felt his pockets for his gloves.

The bus veered toward the sidewalk. Greasy water slushed up round its wheels. John Paul stiffened. He pulled one glove out of his jacket. His other hand remained empty. The bus came to a slopping halt in front of him; the doors opened wide, and a young, widely grinning bus driver welcomed him.

"Hello, one way to Manchester please," John Paul said, handing him the cash.

"I go to Liverpool," said the driver. "If you need Manchester, you'll have to switch at Euxton."

John Paul looked up, shaken from his thoughts. "Oh no, Liverpool is fine as well."

The bus driver smiled, stamped and handed him his ticket. As the bus drove off, John Paul went to sit in the back. He felt his pockets again. But they were still equally empty - he only turned up one single glove. John Paul snorted. This had to have been the craziest trip he had undertaken in a long time. Shaking his head, he looked out the plastic screen window and watched the meadows flash by, raindrops trickling down the glass.

* * *

Lockie awoke as soon as the lock rattled on the shack's door. He startled, coughed, and attempted sitting up straight (but the plastic handcuffs cut into his wrists and held him back). Big eyed, he waited patiently for the door to open. He swore he could hear a dog barking close by, but forced himself to stay still. Last time he had shouted out for help, Cameron had beaten him senseless. His voice was hoarse from shouting now, his throat hurt, and he felt terribly terribly cold. It would do better to preserve his forces, Lockie decided. He would play along with this for now, until he gained enough strength to fight his way out.

His breath grew more shallow as the last lock popped, and the rickety door creaked in motion. Cameron's shadow appeared in the opening. For a moment he stood still, just outside, looking in. Lockie couldn't help the fear from showing in his eyes. His lower lip trembled. He couldn't move his tied feet, but shrank deeper into the soiled mattress. Lockie could feel his eyes begin to prickle with liquid that was about to spill.

Cameron stepped out of the rain, inside the shack, and shut the door upon himself. Lockie began twisting against his restraints. Forbearance be damned! Cameron was going to kill him tonight. The pressure increased in Lockie's veins; his heart beat madly against his ribcage, his skin grew hot - was boiling red - as he struggled to get free.

With cold precision Cameron walked the few paces towards the makeshift bed.

"You're not going anywhere," he said.

The key chain still dangled from Cameron's hand. He loomed over the mattress, the keys jangling just over Lockie's head. Just out of reach. Lockie's hands and feet were both chained to the ground, helplessly resting on the coverlet.

"Please," Lockie half-spoke half-whispered. "Please Cameron, don't do this to me. You're only making it worse on yourself."

Cameron's eyes narrowed, but for the rest he remained unmoved.

"Is that so?"

Lockie stared up at Cameron. He gulped. Never before had he seen his brother's face look so cold. He must feel something - Lockie thought. It couldn't be. Prison couldn't change a person so much. He knew for a fact it was impossible that Cameron felt nothing at all. After all, wasn't it Cameron's fiery temper that had gotten them in trouble time after time? Wasn't it that feisty passionate heart that couldn't find peace, that had provoked his brother on badly thought-out adventures of the illegal kind? Had he been mistaken? All this time, had he never known Cameron at all?

Cameron leaned forward, hiding the keys back in his pocket, and producing a butcher knife. Lockie's eyes went wide. The knife descended upon him: the blunt end came to rest in the crook of his neck, the sharp end just beneath his left earlobe.

"Cameron! You can't be serious."

Cameron smiled. It was a cold wicked smile. Lockie swallowed. He was learning more about his older brother by the day.

"I won't say anything," Lockie offered. He looked up at Cameron with hopeful eyes. Maybe just maybe he could talk his way out of this. It wouldn't be the first time Lockie talked his way out of a sticky situation.

Cameron's smile fell. All of a sudden he looked dead serious once again. The butcher knife cut into Lockie's ear - spreading a thin trail of warm blood down his sweaty unwashed neck.

"You're not talking your way out of this."

Lockie shuddered. Cameron had stopped cutting into his ear, and was carving a thin trail down his arm now. Lockie pinched his eyes shut and grit his teeth. Tears streamed unbidden down his cheeks. He sniffled as Cameron stopped abruptly, standing and rotating the butcher knife in the air - admiring how it glinted in the half dark.

"But why?!" Lockie screamed, rattling the chain.

"You brought this on yourself," said Cameron, still absorbed in the knife he held in his hand.

The phone rang. Cameron blinked out of his stupor. He switched the knife to his left hand, and picked the receiver up in his right.

"Yes, hello Peri."

A stupid smile came onto Cameron's face. Lockie sunk back. He heard Cameron talk in a pleasant voice, and even though he still held the knife, his pose was relaxed...leisurely, even. It was a frightening shift in attitude. Lockie kept his eyes trained on his brother, muscles tensed. Now he knew for certain: he had to escape. If he could not do it, his life was over.

"I'll see you in a bit." A pause. That was good news! That meant he wasn't confined far away from Hollyoaks - went through Lockie's head. "I love you too."

Cameron stashed the phone back in the pocket of his jeans. He looked at Lockie and at the knife that was still in his hands. With a violent swing Cameron aimed the knife at Lockie's head.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you all for the lovely reviews and follows! :-) Yes I do hope Hollyoaks does Lockie x John Paul again. It does seem to be headed that way (judging by the latest episode).


	3. For Your Love

**For Your Love**

Lockie ducked into the mattress, hands covering his head. The butcher knife cut through his plastic handcuffs. It took Lockie a moment to realize his hands were free. He tugged at the plastic rings around his wrists - former six pack yokes fashioned into handcuffs. They wouldn't come off.

With sweat streaming down his forehead, he sat up. Cameron had fallen into some sort of stupor, standing there, the butcher knife still in his hand.

Desperate times called for desperate deeds. Lockie swung his right arm back, and socked his brother Cameron in the crotch. Landing a punch as powerful as his emaciated body would allow for.

Cameron toppled over. He heaved and fell forward. Lockie swung back and hit Cameron over the head. Tears streamed down Lockie's eyes. Even though he knew this was necessary, he didn't like doing this. He didn't like hurting his own brother. And conflicting thoughts assailed his mind; how Cameron was not all bad, and maybe he (just like Lockie) deserved a second chance, because Lockie had made so many mistakes in his life, and Cameron had always been there, had always supported him, even now - Cameron hadn't killed him. Just locked him up in a shack, and regularly fed him, and the chains were only there to make sure Lockie didn't do anything rash (just like he was doing now). When you put it _that_ way, ...

Snap out of it!

The realization came too late as Cameron had recovered and punched Lockie's nose. Warm blood streamed down Lockie's lips, and he thought he'd heard a -crack-, but it could have been a twig. That's what it was - he decided. Still the pain was overwhelming and Lockie crumpled to a ball, shielding his face.

"Please, please don't hurt me," he whined. His knees, tightly pressed to his chest, trembled. His back shivered in agony. Suddenly he remembered how cold it was in the shack, and that he wasn't wearing a jacket. The chill enveloped him and Lockie froze to the bone. His teeth, chattering.

"Please Cameron. A new year has begun. We can start off on a new slate. You don't have to do this. If you let me go, I won't breathe a word of this. To anyone. Not even to Leela."

"Leela is none of your concern, and if you say her name again I will slice your head off."

Lockie remained silent. He watched Cameron's feet move around the shack - with rigid, premeditated steps. Rain pattered over the roof in a soothing rhythm that used to lull Lockie to sleep, but he hurt too much and his nose was still bleeding. Lockie blinked back tears. He shivered on the makeshift cot, and pulled his feet up. A metal chain went all around his ankles, and was screwed into the floor. His skin was red under the chain links - they had been there so long, Lockie no longer felt the metal drain away his body warmth.

"I brought you potato and chicken salad," Cameron said in a mechanical voice as he set down a few boxes on the floor. There was no cutlery. Lockie was expected to eat with his hands or by sticking his mouth directly into the container and slurping - like a dog. Lockie glared up at Cameron.

Cameron didn't seem to notice. He had hidden his butcher knife away somewhere, and was going through the motions, like he always did. A daunting realization settled over Lockie. Cameron was going to leave him here, again. No, no, no - _anything_ was better than that. The thought of being all alone in this stinking old den made Lockie feel sick to his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything since yesterday. His stomach grumbled and his throat felt sore for hot soup - one he could be having right now at the Tug Boat.

With a waning voice he croaked: "Cameron, you're all I have left."

The movement stopped. Cameron's feet held still for a moment, and looking up, Lockie saw Cameron was casting him a sidelong glance.

Then the feet moved rapidly away, and the door slammed in the lock. Lockie heard a key chain jangle as the door was being locked - one lock at a time.

* * *

By the time John Paul's bus rolled into Liverpool, the skies were like a festering bruise - thick clouds encroached the town up ahead, heavy with moisture. They were ready to burst at any minute, and as John Paul got out at the central bus station, he hurried under the large overhanging roof. Wearing one glove - the other had been lost somewhere along his crazy trip to Blackburn on the previous night - he felt his pockets for the cash he'd snatched from his one-night-stand's night table. The thought of that still made him blush. He reminded himself promptly that he had only stolen the money so he could pay for a safe ride home, ...but as an afterthought that sounded all the more ridiculous and John Paul began to understand why he had really done it:

He couldn't stand the thought of facing the guy he had just slept with. Of talking to him, finding out his name, getting him to drive him home, and then - God - and then the myriad of questions Mom was sure to ask when she saw him getting out of a strange car through the kitchen window. John Paul covered his face with his hand.

The wide display said the next bus to Chester would depart in over an hour. He had an hour to kill in Liverpool, and no money to spend. John Paul stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat, and sauntered from one shop to the next, not really feeling it.

Christmas lights and glittery red-and-green decorations still were everywhere. Plaques announced huge discounts, but all John Paul could do was window shop. He sighed - looking through the glass and seeing a baby blue shawl his cousin Theresa would have loved.

That made him think of Mercedes, how strongly her miscarriage had affected her, one thought led to another, and before he knew it he was the only one slogging down a narrow back alley, rain falling down on his shoulders, sinking through the neck-hole of his jacket, down his neck and under his shirt. What a marvelous way to start the new year - he thought - in some godforsaken town where no-one knew him, after sleeping with some bloke he would never meet again, and with no money to spare (he couldn't even buy himself a pint of lager! - let alone Christmas presents on discount). He felt his pockets for his phone. He should just send Mom a text to tell her that he was alright. Raindrops fell on the display, so he covered the phone with his own body and his hand.

His breath fogged white steam in the cold falling rain as he browsed through his Contacts list. John Paul frowned. His finger paused just about to scroll down further but instead he stared intently at the glowing screen.

 _Why_ was _Lockie_ still on it?

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Once again thank you for your support! Means a lot to me, and it's fun to meet so many Lockie/JP fans.

What do you guys make of the new storyline by the by, the one with John Paul and Sally? :-) To me it seems very one-sided from Sally's side and John Paul isn't really into her (he likes her, but only as a friend). That could lead to a rift between them though, because (as past events have shown) Sally is prone to keep grudges and easily gets offended. :-S Don't know how she is going to take John Paul's rejection. What's your take on this?


	4. Are We Friends Or Lovers

**Are We Friends Or Lovers?**

John Paul felt a shiver go through him as he stared at his phone. Lockie's smiling face, bright eyes, sparkly white grin, the dimples in his cheeks. Summer days, warm hands, cold beers, covert winks and droll excuses. In that desolate Liverpool back alley on New Year's Day, drenched to the bone, and new rain falling, falling - it all came flooding back.

Gaudy pink wallpaper, nondescript black socks, a crumpled beige shirt, and a frumpy tie that pulled off in a hurry. Legs, legs, lots of legs. John Paul smiled stupidly as a particular image came to mind. Lockie walking the sitting room on all fours, neighing wildly, with Matthew giggling on his back. An exchange of eyes over a crowded room, sudden understanding, then the sneaking away and enjoying each other's company, finally, in peace. Yeah, they shouldn't have done that ... the sneaking part.

If only it could have been that simple, that uncomplicated as last year's summer made it seem. But it had to end. It wasn't fair on Porsche and it wasn't meant to last. What he had with Lockie was a one time thing, an adventure. It could never work because Lockie didn't do steady, and because Lockie was not gay. If John Paul had fallen for anything Lockie's loose tongue had so willingly given him, he only had himself to blame. He enlarged Lockie's contact details. He was ready to delete them.

An incoming call stopped him.

Lockie Campbell

John Paul wiped the rain drops from his phone. It was happening. Again. And somehow, he felt compelled to answer.

"Hello?" John Paul said, picking up.

The reply was so very faint, that at first John Paul didn't hear it. He couldn't place Lockie's voice. This was so unlike him. At first John Paul blamed it on bad reception wherever the hell Lockie was holed up in, and perhaps a mother of a hangover could explain the ill sounding croak in Lockie's voice, and the faint low whine as if he was in serious pain. Then he could make out the words, fit them into sentences, and John Paul stopped thinking altogether. What Lockie was saying sounded too absurd.

"John Paul, don't hang up on me. Please, will you listen? I know I've been a total swine to you lately, but please, you're my only hope. Cameron is keeping me captive in some shack or something, this is the first time I could call. I'm hungry, and thirsty, and it's cold. And I know I deserve this, but I think I might be getting a pneumonia. Can you please come get me?"

A raindrop fell on the tip of John Paul's nose, spattering over his face. His eyes closed on impact.

"Is this a joke?"

"Dead serious, I swear, on the life of my future children."

The rain picked mud up in streams as it coursed down the cobbled street, in between the tiles. John Paul decided to move on; he had been standing in that godforsaken back alley for too long. The next bus to Chester would soon depart. And he could keep up this fanciful conversation with Lockie while walking; it made no sense to remain rooted to the spot.

"When you left without saying a word, Porsche was devastated. And I would be, too, if I'd have been in her position," John Paul added as an afterthought.

"I couldn't. Cameron kidnapped me."

"What?" John Paul dragged a wet hand through his hair. "You're worse than Pete. The tales you come up with to keep me invested. It's sickening. Lockie, this has to stop. Right before you called me, I was about to delete all your contact details from my phone."

"Why didn't you?"

The bus station was in sight. John Paul saw his bus to Chester already boarding. He quickened his step, heart thudding, as his shoes splish splashed over uneven tiles.

"Because you still have a soft spot for me in your heart."

"No." John Paul came to a full stop. The driver and the other passengers looked at him strangely. "No, I do not have a soft spot for you anywhere. Lockie, you can't do this. You can't wind me around your little finger and tell me to play ball. It doesn't work that way. I told you last summer and I'm telling you now - it's over. We're done."

John Paul handed his stolen cash to the driver.

"But last autumn I saw how you looked at me when I was with Porsche. I saw you staring. I know that you want me."

The driver stamped him a one way ticket, and held it out. The bus was purring with non-biodegradable diesel gas.

"What? No. I was staring because you disgust me. You and your fancy lies! You can go to hell for all I care. And I'm glad Porsche dumped you. My cousin shouldn't be anywhere near such an animal like you."

"Animal ?" There was a lilt to Lockie's voice.

"Okay, that came out wrong."

"Please John Paul, just this once. We don't have to see each other after this. But can you please come get me? I'm dying here."

Lockie coughed twice.

"Um, sir?" It was the bus driver, a humorless middle aged man with many lines on his face. He waved the ticket out in front of John Paul. "We were scheduled to depart two minutes ago."

"Oh, yes." said John Paul as he took the ticket, forgetting to end the call.

"Thank you! You don't know how much this means - " Lockie cried into John Paul's ear.

"No, wait, I wasn't talking to you. What do you take me for? I'm not a fool Lockie, you can't keep doing this. We are over. We were over. Since last summer. How does that not get through to you?"

John Paul was breathing rapidly, and his hands were shaking. He couldn't feel the chill though his clothes were drenched, water in his shoes. The doors to the bus closed, as its engine grumped to life. John Paul snapped back to reality in time to bang on the plastic doors.

"Hey, wait!"

The driver rolled a window open. "Sorry sir, we're leaving. Sort out your own problems with your boyfriend on your own time." And with a vaguely contemptuous smile on his face, he took off.

John Paul threw his hands in the air. He checked the ticket. It was only valid within the hour. Next bus to Chester would depart in an hour. So basically he was stuck in Liverpool.

"John Paul? As much as I wish we were still together, I know that we aren't. I know that it's over, despite how amazing it was, and how I regret it ended, believe me - I'm not trying to worm my way in. Only begging you for a favor. Just one favor, because nobody else can help me now. Please come get me before Cameron kills me."

John Paul sighed. He tossed the ticket in the trash and shook his head.

"Why don't you call the police?"

"I don't even know where I am."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** According to canon, John Paul is a fan of The Zutons (their songs played in the background when John Paul got it on with Craig back in 2007), and this does seem to fit John Paul's character. So the chapter title bears a reference to The Zutons. ;-)


End file.
